Hanoi Hole Hangout(Language warning)

Summary:
August 12 2014: A group gathers by chance to reminisce about war.

Hanoi Hole

They call it the "Hanoi Hole" regardless of what the sign out front says, because it's pretty fucking fitting really. It's the sort of place that expects customers to speak Vietnamese, yet has American flags on the walls. Faded pictures of Smiling South Vietnamese soldiers and men in tiger striped BDUs, Creedence clear water on the juke box. It's sort've become the unofficial gathering place for 'Nam vets, even if the punk kids who run the place these days have no idea. Like all of these god damned Civilians, truly. The more recent change though, is more recent vets. Some from Afghanistan, some from Iraq and alot've shadowy types you don't ask too many questions of.


Characters

NPCs

  • Bar Patrons
  • <Use same pattern for all npcs>

Mood Music:
[*<http://insert.video.or.music.link.here>]


She's tall, athletic tattooed and she's definitely some flavor of fucking spook. If you served in 'Nam, you learned how to spot them. Maybe she never wore Tiger stripes(she did and does, actually), but Spooks are all alike. If you needed to score pot, coke or the best whores you found a spook in Saigon because lord knows those guys always had a fucking clue. This one though, doesn't really fit the wardrobe. Well used Olive jungle boots that've been deshanked, a similarly ancient looking dull green M65,jeans and a "Liberate them" T-shirt, with the word "freedom" written on a free falling bomb towards an outline of China. Thats easy to pawn off as a random bitch playing dress up, but theres little things here.

The way she smokes a cigarette and mutters coarse Vietnamese to the woman taking her order, the fact she's got a Laotian fucking accent and well there's a certain swagger there. Beat to fuck Seiko-5 turned around to the inside of her wrist, Not the sort've stuff your average civilian picks up yaknow?

Slade walks through the door and without pausing heads straight for the bar. He's bigger then most any man in the room, taller, broader, and while there are those that walk with the swagger of vets, this man walks with the precision of active personnel. No swagger here, just reality. Anyone here knows the type, the kind that lived, ate, breathed the military, the officer that fought beside his men one moment and went out back to beat the shit out of them afterward if they failed to follow through on an order, to do their job properly. A man hated and beloved in equal portions. White haired with the goatee, he looks older at first glance, the sort of man that /might/, if he didn't move like a youngster, have been in 'Nam. But at closer inspection he's clearly to young. Gone snowy early, clearly, but not old enough to have seen 'Nam. Dessert Storm maybe? He's wearing black BDU's and boots made for stomping, but they're not general purpose so much as custom. A pea coat, a black under shirt, and an eyepatch. His clothing is expensive, tailored to fit, so unlike many here he landed on his feet when he got out. Officer most likely. Ick. "Whiskey." he says as he takes his seat at the bar, back to the room. He has a voice like 3 miles of gravel rolling over a bass drum.

A rather young looking man in his mid twenties completely covered in scars with military tattoo's covering almost everything but the mans face is already at the bar having a bit of a quiet discussion in Vietnamese with one of the waitresses. If Slade looks a bit too young for 'nam this upstart looks way too young for it. The kind of tattoo's he's rocking really shouldn't even be on someone twice his age, but here he is acting like he's got every right to wear them with pride.

A few of the older soldiers who probably actually did serve are giving him that sort of glare like he's pretending to be something he's not, but at the same time he gives off the same sort of vibe Slade is. Maybe not as strong, but it's there enough that no one really has the nerve to call him on what he's got on his skin. He's got the stance of a life service soldier, got the scars of one to boot, but it just doesn't mesh, like he's not natural. "I am Jason Lucky" He says one last time after throwing back the contents of his shot glass, "I don't know many more ways to say it" adding on in rather spot on Vietnamese.

Partisan pauses to accept her Pho, before looking casually after Lucky from where she sits. Yeah so she remembers the dude from Stark Tower, and for the moment she lets things slide. "I think, Lucky you should let it cool dude."Switching back over to English ever so casually, cigarette smoldering as she snags a pair of chopsticks from the table. "Why don't you join me, I never got properly introduced the first time we met. When exactly was it that you served?"

Slade goes still. It's different then stiffening, this is far more subtle, less obvious, but no less profound. He simple becomes statuesque. He only moves again when his shot is set on the bar, "Leave the bottle." he says, the bar tender eyes him, the bottle, does the math about laws and what's allowed to be had or taken… Then leaves the bottle. There's a reason the same people have owned this place for so long, they know what fights not to pick. He remains unobtrusive, but lets himself focus in on the conversation Lucky has suddenly been invited to join.

Lucky turns from the bar locking back down whatever emotions he might have been letting slip through just to take a seat near partisan. He looks about the same as he did in stark tower, only without the black suit and tie. It really seems like he's been working out every day of his life to get in the shape his is now, but that wasn't really as clear to see with his monkey suit on. "Joined in '56" his voice calm, and emotionless just to keep himself from over reacting to a somewhat stressful situation. He looks through her as he speaks more then at her, as if trying to see something behind her without looking around her. His scars make it so his face is essentially locked in a constant unhappy resting state, carving up his features into rough little sections of their own.

If the scars bother her, she does a helluva act hiding it really. "Fifty six huh, back before Johnson came in and fucked everything all to hell then. Who'd you serve with, chicken men, berets? I know you didn't play around with SOG, or I'd recognize you."Pausing to work on her Pho ever so casually, cigarette left to smolder as she offers Lucky her cigarette pack with her off hand. "I didn't get in country until Sixty two, had some other shit I was handling before then. Stayed in countr-, well fuck. In theatre anyway until we pulled out, then got my ass pitched into a few other jungles."

Slade needs only glance once, fleetingly, in the smudged mirror behind the bar to spot the two talking. Seriously? They're like /12/. Still… Slade's well aware that he's not the only attempt at recreating Captain America that was made. To his knowledge however, he's the only one that was more then successful. Still…

He takes in a breath and lets it out slowly, so very very slowly, counting down as his mind slides back through the years. One of the upsides, or downsides, of his enhancements is the perfect recall. Nothing ever fades from his memory, ever, and somehow it's clearer then it should be, smells sharper, images brighter, cleaner, as if his mind could take pre-enhancement memories and Blu-Ray them for him. Without his asking it to. Or wanting it.

"Corporal I am going to be very clear," Slade is much younger and his voice is clearer, no gravel at all and a whole octive higher, "if your fucking up this mission costs me one of my men I will personally wear your skin as a fucking suit." he leans in close, "And by that, I mean a suit I will wear when I fuck unclean things. Like your newly skinned corpse. Am I good and goddmaned clear??" He stares into the face of a Lucky, only it's a scar free face, fresh and boyish and young, just like almost everyone in 'Nam. The young man barks off a sharp 'sir yes sir' and Slade continues to stare unblinking into the face before nodding firmly once, "Good answer." then he's circling a hand over his head, "LOAD UP! We've got slant eyed shitheels to make very very dead and I am growing bored scaring the piss out of greenies! You won't like me when I'm bored boys! MOVE IT!"

Slade's eye opens once more and he glances into the mirror again. Yeah. He remembers the face before the scars. His mouth thins into a line. He remembers it after too. He downs the shot and instantly refills his glass. God he hated 'Nam…

"Hopped around a bit," Jason trying to skip his way around the question as another shot is brought out to him. He wonders for a second what he can say even, with most of his mind just a blur. It's a hard thing remembering what you're told to forget, trained to forget, ordered to forget. Finally he just decides to add on, "Got a pair of silver wings", keeping his attention through the woman across from him while he just throws the shot back.

Though Jason's mind had been partially fixed, there was still quite a lot of work that would need to be done for him to be considered anything close to normal again. He was still sitting in what amounted to hell itself inside of his own mind, but at least the screaming stopped, the screaming was finally gone. The crying faces, the burning buildings, the bodies floating down rivers of blood where all still there, but he couldn't hear any of it anymore. All he could hear was the real world around him, and that was enough for him to keep somewhat stable as he spoke with Partisan.

Partisan mmmmms, seemingly more interested in her Pho. "It's rough, not getting old really. Rough having good wars end, rough having nothing but time to look back on the war that left you."Pausing to sip after her coffee for a moment, before she goes right back in. "There are very few secrets left from the war now, leaks and so fourth. All the best secrets, out there for these civilians."

Slade almost speaks before he can stop himself, which sends ice water through his veins. Slade doesn't lose control. That's his thing. Control. Complete, unasailable, unbreakable control. Over all things, but mostly, himself. Still. Somethings make a reaction viceral. His teeth click together, stopping the words on his tongue though. He then takes a moment to consider and he spins on his stool to face the two he was eavesdropping on, "Not the best ones." he counters Partisan's words, "Just the ones not worth keeping anymore."

Lucky snaps his attention away from the shot-glass. He knows that voice from somewhere, but he can't quite place it. Just another one of those things lost through the fog. Part of his mind is telling him that he should be standing at attention right now, but he tries his best to force that back in his mind. He's got to think of something witty of his own to say, something that will make him a valid part of the conversation. "Suppose we're both living proof," Jason's not even sure what compels him to say that of all things, not looking behind himself.

Partisan glances over towards Slade "I don't know, I didn't much appreciate the fucking New York Times talking about what I was up to in Laos. Burned me hard, got me slung back into the shit. 'Nam was the first time I ever had direct logistical support, it was like mana from heaven. I was doing good work, was going to stay on until 78' until my name got dropped. You wanna tell me what good telling the public about that did, or televising Tet at all? We never lost the war, the media did. They knew too much, they knew shit they had no business knowing. You can't get much done when there are no more shadows to operate in."Offering Slade now, that pack've smokes and nodding towards an empty chair.

Slade waves the cancer sticks away with a look of disgust and climbs down off of the bar to take a seat in the offered chair. Doing so opens the coat to show the weapons holstered inside, flashes of pistols and magazines. It's short, but enough to know the man is well armed. In New York City. Which is very nearly a fools errand given the scrutiny your average New York block is under these days. "Then you weren't operating in dark enough shadows." Slade counters Partisan's words, "If you get caught, then you did something wrong." his voice has the air of a man who's given similar speeches before. He's the kind of man that believes no mission ever fails, soldiers do. Unforgiving sumbitch. Then he turns his head to eye Lucky, "Sargent." he adds after a moment, staring into Lucky's face, using the last rank he knew the man to have. Slade looks older, about 20 years older, then when Jason knew him. He has lines, some serious scar tissue poking out around the patch over his eye, same tan though. The remaining eye is the same cold ice blue though, hard, unyielding. "Thought you bought the farm, heard your Huey went down. Wasted a shot pouring one out to you." that last comment sounds like he's personally insulted.

"It's colonel now" Jason says looking down to the now empty shot-glass with that sort of distant look he's almost always got in his eyes. He's seen, and been through a hell of a lot in not a lot of time. "That's the last thing I remember before leaving," Which is perfectly true, everything in that time span is a complete blank to him, nothing but fuzzy memories, and what few memories are clear don't exactly fit right with what he remembers before. He hardly even recognizes Slade for the hard work the years have done on the man. Heck he doesn't even know where he knows that name from, like most of his carrier past a certain point it's mainly just fuzz on a screen his mind having filled in the blanks on its own. His voice is rather flat, and somewhat distracted by something as if he's fighting just to speak with the man.

Partisan grumbles just a tad "I never got caught, some jackass at the agency leaked the documents to the press."Lifting her coffee mug finally to first Slade, and then Lucky. "To the promotion then, Colonel. My most belated compliments, didn't know I was sneaking into the officer's lounge over here."Chancing another glance after Slade "What were you, Bars?"

Slade's gaze remains on Lucky, "Colonel." he answers Partisan, "When I left." which was many many many years after 'Nam was all but forgotten as a 'conflict' or a War. "Welcome to the lounge, spook."

Lucky thinks hard, looking down to the empty shot-glass as if all of his answers might somehow be down in there if he looked hard enough. "Doesn't sound right," is all he really manages to say, clenching his fist around the glass, before letting his grip fall loose again, as if testing to make sure everything still works. "Doesn't feel right," His voice sounds somewhat distant, and out of it, but every bit as gravely as you could expect from a man who spends a lot of time shouting.

"Contractor, for spooks."She corrects, though she hardly seems offended in the least. "What feels right, doesn't much matter. You guys were in the shit, you know how it was. Very little of what I did beyond the sort've vanilla recon shit, felt anything approaching right. Figure whats right or whats wrong doesn't so much matter, too subjective. I know I did important work, I kept my boys alive, and I don't know a whole lot else that should really matter to be honest. "
Slade nods his appreciation for the title, after all, that's what he does now. "Nothing else did back then." he agrees with Partisan before pushing himself to his feet. He swallows off his shot and leaves the bottle there on the table, "I'm done for now, paid my respects as required." he eyes Partisan once, offering a small nod and then eyeing Lucky one last time, "Next time Sargent," Slade offers helpfully, "duck."

With a sudden motion Lucky slams himself down into a crouched position moving his head out of the way. He's not even sure why himself but it's just something about that word, he can't even help himself from it. There's something wrong with the man for sure, but what is anyone's guess, he's getting a few looks from around the bar but at the moment he's just worried about getting his head blown off.

Slade quirks a brow at Lucky and then reaches down, extending a hand to the man, "Next time Sargent, next time. Not just yet." his tone is warring between compassion and annoyance and it finds middle ground where it always does. Dicipline. He pulls Lucky to his feet and claps him on the shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise, his fingers digging into the muscle there firmly, "Wars over soldier," Slade says, his voice hard and authoritative, "ain't no more shitheels to kill, no more jungles you need to walk through if you don't want to. We all carry what happened there, clearly you and me," he points out the fact neither of them are as 'old' as they should be, "are carrying more then anyone should. Question is Sargent," Slade leans over the, "are you strong enough to shoulder the weight. I am. Seems to me, the man I knew? He could haul twice through a patty and not be bothered to break a sweat." He shakes Luckly once then releases him, "Two things win you a war Sargent Jason Lucky, fortune and discipline, and despite your name the only one of them you can't run out of is discipline. Soldier on." and then Slade turns to leave, not waiting to see if Lucky can take the words, harsh and cold as they were, for the helping hand they were meant to be… or if he'll just buckle again. Slade hopes the former, but if it's the later… well, he owes Lucky one. If he ends up a jibbering mess Slade will make sure he doesn't suffer long. Slade Wilson always pays his debts.


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